Being There
by spotsbang
Summary: Starts about half a year after The Reichenbach Fall. I'm not totally sure where it's going yet, but I hope it'll be interesting! There will probably be some bromance/light slash at some point.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Here we go. I hope you enjoy it! Reviews are read and loved. :)**

**(For anyone wondering about my old story, sorry, I haven't forgotten it, I just haven't worked on it in a while, I will get back to it at some point)**

John Watson was sitting in the old armchair at 221B Baker Street, staring blankly at the floor. _It's just like_, he thought, _being back in Afghanistan, except that I didn't leave after the trauma_. He _couldn't_ leave. And there was no one to force him to go, like there had been in the war.

A knock startled him from his thoughts. He straightened up to see Mrs. Hudson in the doorway. "Hello." he said dully, trying to summon up a smile. Mrs. Hudson came bustling toward him as if his unenthusiastic greeting was her cue. "Oh, my love," she said with concern, "You're making me worry, all this sitting and staring at nothing." John cleared his throat uncomfortably. "Sorry." he said shortly.

Mrs. Hudson clucked her tongue. "You should get out occasionally, you know." she said reprovingly. She hesitated, then added, "this isn't going to bring Sherlock back." She sucked in a breath at the end, as if surprised at her own audacity, and John felt suddenly unable to breathe himself for a moment.

When he had regained control, he nodded. "I- er- I was going to go down to the café this morning anyway." he lied. Mrs. Hudson smiled. "That's right, dear," she replied more cheerfully, "do you a good turn." She headed back toward the stairway after a moment. "Well, I'll just be downstairs," she reminded John, "give a shout if you need anything."

Having told Mrs. Hudson that he was going, John felt obliged to follow through. After a few minutes, he got up, picked up the walking stick that leaned on the arm of the chair, and went to get his wallet and coat.

There was a new guy behind the counter at the little café downstairs. He was rather odd looking: young, with a mop of straight, dark brown hair and square glasses settled on his noes, from behind which he was fiddling intently with some sort of small gadget. John cleared his throat. "Erm- hello." he said to get the man's attention. The man behind the counter looked up, saw John, then pulled his glasses off and sprang to attention- rather, John thought, over-enthusiastically.

"Hello!" he said brightly. "Sorry. What can I get for you?" He looked almost embarrassingly pleased. John shifted his weight. "A coffee, please. And- one of those." He jabbed a finger at something in the glass display case that looked vaguely interesting.

The man took a pair of tongs from a nail and slipped John's pastry onto a small ceramic plate, then filled a mug with steaming coffee from the silver machine in the corner. He brought the mug over to John, placing it before him with a flourish. "There you are. That'll be five pounds seventy, please." John paid, and took his breakfast to an empty table at the back.

John ate hurriedly, eager to be back to the flat, back out of the observing eye of the public. He carried his dishes to the counter when he was finished, then limped out. As he crossed through the doorway, the enthusiastic barista noticed him. "Goodbye!" he called after John. "Have a wonderful day!" John nodded in surly acknowledgement and continued on his way.

John was panting by the time he reached the top of the stairs. He knew, logically, that the pain in his leg was really only psychological, but that didn't make it hurt any less. He went through the door into the still-cluttered living room and froze.

The large armchair was facing away from him, and over the back of it, John could see the top of a head of black curls. A squeezing feeling came round his middle.

_No. It couldn't be. But who else could it possibly be?_


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Sorry about the short chapters. I'll try to increase length as they go on. **

**Thanks for reading! Please review if you have time :)**

John was frozen to the spot. After a moment, the person in the chair turned and stood to face him. John's heart gave a painful throb of disappointment. It was not Sherlock.

Then he frowned. "Hang on-" Irene Adler gave him a look that communicated as clearly as if she had spoken aloud. _Don't speak._ She closed the distance between them in a few strides, coming uncomfortably close. Laying a hand on his shoulder, she leaned forward and kissed him once on each cheek, briefly, a greeting.

John felt one of her hands brush his thigh lightly, and swallowed hard. Her hand came off his shoulder, and she gave him a brief smile, then left. He heard the door click shut behind her. Reaching down, he could feel a small, stiff square of something that she had slipped into his pocket.

John made his way over to the couch and sat down, then opened a newspaper. Surreptitiously, he pulled the square of paper out of his pocket, holding it in front of the newspaper. Irene's visit had left secrecy in the air, and John felt like he was being watched by several pairs of eyes as he let his eyes drift down the newspaper to where he held Irene's message.

It was written on thick card stock, in tall, elegant cursive:

_You are in danger. Wait five minutes, then go back to the  
><em>_café downstairs. Tell the man behind the counter that you  
><em>_left your umbrella there. Act absolutely natural._

Frowning, John glanced up at the clock, then looked back at the newspaper. His mind was racing. _How could she have been there? Wasn't she meant to be dead? _Then- _If she was alive, then why couldn't Sherlock-_

John cut off that thought. He couldn't think that, couldn't let himself hope. It was too painful, still to close, even nearly six months after what had happened. John dropped his head into his hands, trying to breathe deeply through the ache in his chest.

He remembered something that Sherlock had said, on that very first case, the one he'd called _A Study in Pink_. The woman had had a stillborn daughter, Rachel. Sherlock had been trying to find out why that was the last thing she thought of and had said, "That was ages ago. Why would she still be upset?"

Not for the first time, John wondered what Sherlock would be doing at that moment if it was John lying under that black marble gravestone instead of him.

Looking up at the clock again, John realized his five minutes were up. Trying to act natural as Irene Adler had commanded, he folded the newspaper and stood, making his way back down the stairs and out.

The man behind the counter was alert, attending to a customer, when John entered. Once the woman in front of him had taken her coffee and sat down, John stepped up to the counter. The odd man leaned forward. "Back so soon?" He asked in a voice that was almost mischievous.

John cleared his throat. "I- ehm. I left my umbrella here." The odd man smiled widely. "I have it for you," he replied brightly, "right this way." He opened a chest-high, swinging door on the side of the counter so John could pass behind it, then led John through a doorway into a small closet-like space.

John instantly spotted Irene Adler, leaning against a wall next to a hook piled with aprons. She straightened when she saw him. "John-" he shook his head, determined to get a word in. "You were dead." He told her, almost angrily. "I was the one that had to tell Sherlock." His voice caught slightly on the name.

Irene Adler came toward him. "Oh, John, Sherlock knew exactly where I was." she told him. Her smile was sad. "Are you really surprised?" John cocked his head slightly to one side, then nodded, not looking up at Irene. "No, I suppose not."

She let the quiet between them linger a minute longer, then began speaking in an urgent voice. "John, you're being watched by several different parties, and not all of them have your best interests at heart." John frowned. "Why are you telling me this, again?"

Irene Adler looked at him for a long moment, then said quietly, "Because you were Sherlock's friend. Because you were the most important person in his life." John swallowed. A part of him inside died a little bit every time someone used the past tense to describe Sherlock.

Irene wasn't finished. "I came because I was notified that someone had set a sniper on 221B. I believe that in the next few days, more will surround the flat." John shook his head in confusion. "Hang on, who would be pointing snipers at _me_? I'm just-"

John couldn't finish. What was he _just_? He was not so important and clever as Sherlock Holmes, he never had been. He had always been just the tag-a-long, and he had enjoyed it, he had loved it, loved working with Sherlock. But he hadn't really done anything to attract anyone's attention, had he?

Irene looked almost surprised. "John, you're the remainder of Sherlock's two-man team. Not everyone knew about you, but for those who did, you were Sherlock's better half. You were the one that made him human, related him to the public." _All those past tenses._

Irene paused, then continued. "Sherlock's death was surrounded by scandal, he supposedly died despairing because everyone realized that he was a fraud. You're the only thing that ruins that image. The public was meant to think Sherlock deserved it, they don't want to think about his depressed friend. They don't want to feel sorry for you."

John frowned. "I'm not _depressed_." he retorted. Irene shot him a look, and he fell silent. There was a moment in which neither of them spoke, then John nodded. "Okay, so- what am I supposed to do? If I'm that watched, that followed..." he trailed off. It was not a good thought.

Irene leaned towards him. "Run. Go on an errand this evening and don't come back. Don't use your name on anything that could be traced back to you. Don't use a credit card. You have to disappear."


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: This is a longer note than usual because it's been nearly two months since I saw any new Sherlock, and you know **_**absence makes the obsession grow stronger.**_** Anyhow, if anyone needs a fix, I've just been watching Third Star, very sad, but amazing acting from Benedict of course. Also I was listening to sad songs while I was writing, so if I'm melodramatic, forgive me. Also I got a little overemotional writing the middle of this so sorry if it seems botched or overdone, I was just thinking of poor John... Anyhow, sorry about all that. I hope you enjoy this one! FEEL ALL THE FEELS**

**And please review :) :)**

Walking back to the flat, John skimmed through the article Irene had given him. _Why now?_ He'd asked, and she'd handed it over. **SHERLOCK'S SIDEKICK**. It was printed in a small local journal, which only had a minor readership, but it was enough, Irene had said, to scare whoever was watching him. It would be easy enough for them to take care of him, to make sure that nobody learned any more about Sherlock's "sidekick".

When John had pointed out that murdering him was bound to cause some suspicion, Irene had looked at him as if he were a very small child. _John,_ she had said, with a hint of disparagement, _some of these people are criminal masterminds. Do you really think they can't cover up a little murder?_

Some of those people. John thought of Moriarty, then pushed the thought out of his mind. _Moriarty is dead._

The article was thick with rumors and quotations from articles from the brief period of time when Sherlock and John had been public characters. There wasn't much new information even guessed, but Irene had said that that didn't matter. It was the fact that people were thinking of him, the potential that they might come looking for more information.

Then she'd asked John if he owned a bulletproof vest. The answer was yes- Sherlock had nicked a a pair off the Yard during a particularly hairy case a couple months before he died. Still, the question was not comforting.

Back at the flat, John tried to begin to prepare without looking like he was. Feeling like he was on stage, he slipped the vest on from inside his closet and changed into more comfortable shoes. Then he collected his laptop and went into the living room.

John had been writing a lot lately. Not on his blog, of course, that always made him feel exposed, vulnerable. He'd just been writing, on one document, sheltered from prying eyes under the innocuous alibi . The entries he made always started the same way: Dear Sherlock.

They ranged enormously in size and tone, from descriptions of events in his day to rants directed at Sherlock. John never looked at them twice once he wrote them- even to himself, it seemed too personal. The emotional posts were so raw and bare that they made his stomach squirm even thinking about writing them, but it always felt good to get it out.

He opened the document and scrolled quickly to the bottom, pressing the enter button until the page in front of him was blank, ready to be filled as he emptied himself into it. _Dear Sherlock,_ he started. He took a deep breath, then let himself write what he'd been stopping himself from thinking.

_Irene Adler is alive. You helped her somehow, because she said you knew she was alive. If she's alive, then why can't you be? Why would you be dead, Sherlock?_

As soon as John had typed the last word, he pulled his hands off the keyboard, fisting them several inches above the base of his laptop. A violent shudder passed through him, and he felt a sort of empty relief. After a moment he lowered his hands back to the keys, taking a deep breath before continuing.

_This won't be long, because I've got something I need to prepare for this evening. I just wanted to tell you, if you're somewhere listening, that I always believed in you, always, even when you seemed to doubt it. I would have been more careful to say so more often, but I never thought_

John couldn't quite finish that sentence, not after already being more than normally brazen within the same paragraph, so he went a line down and kept typing.

_You were just such an aggravating git sometimes. God, I wish you would just get back here and be your stupid arrogant self again. _

John laughed, aloud, a short and painful laugh that was uncomfortably close to a sob.

_The truth is, I miss you. I don't know if I'll ever get used to living alone in 221B._

It seemed like an uncomfortable way to end the note, but John reminded himself for the hundredth time that he was writing these for himself, that nobody, especially not Sherlock, would ever read them. The thought descended over his chest like a lead weight. John's expression closed slightly as he signed off.

_Your friend, John._

He closed the laptop and slipped it into the bag he'd brought down from his room with him, then leaned back in the chair, closing his eyes. He let himself sit there for a long while, maybe fifteen minutes, letting his thoughts drift among less painful topics than Sherlock.

All at once, John sat up. He felt suddenly oddly alert, as if he'd just gotten the caffeine kick from his morning's coffee. Frowning, he glanced around the room, letting one hand brush his jacket where his gun rested. Nothing was out of order.

Then several things happened at once. John stood, straight up from his chair, not thinking about his sore leg or the cane that leaned against the armrest. At the same moment, he heard gunfire. For a moment, he flashed on Afghanistan, and felt a twinge in his left shoulder.

John felt a sudden burning across his upper right leg, and squinting down, he could see blood spreading across the front of his trousers. A second later, his knees buckled, and he pitched forward. The coffee table was advancing toward him at an alarming rate. Everything went black.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: Finished watching Third Star last night. Oh man, you guys, if anyone likes getting your heart torn out by movies, this is the one for you. I was literally crying out loud. Lucky I was alone and no one was milling round the house thinking what a weirdo I was. Also sorry these chapters are so short. I'll grind them out quickly though! Then maybe someday compile them into longer ones. Anyhow, here's next. Don't worry, Sherlock's coming back soon… He's just waiting for the right moment. :) Enjoy! And review! I like to read reviews… **

_Please, I need an ambulance._ Everything was a mess of pain and confusion. _Please, quickly._ _221B Baker Street. _Any semblance of consciousness was agony, but there was something, some reason he was holding on. That voice...

John opened his eyes. For a moment, he was unsure of where he was. Then he understood, taking in the quiet beeping of a monitor and the long, clear tube descending from a drip bag hung on a metal hook. He took a deep breath. Footsteps approached, and then a face came into view. "He's come round." More faces.

One doctor checked John's eyes briefly with a small hand light. Another, holding a clipboard, smiled at him. "How are you feeling?" she asked briskly. John thought a moment before answering. "Alright." The doctor made a brief mark on the clipboard. "Can you answer some questions for me?" She glanced briefly at him before continuing. "Can you tell me your name and place of residence?"

John swallowed. "John Watson. 221B Baker Street, London, England." he replied. She smiled. "Do you know today's date?" _A concussion._ John thought. He himself had asked these same questions on numerous occasions of bleary soldiers. "I think it's the sixth, isn't it?" The doctor made a note on her clipboard.

"Do you remember what happened?" she asked after a minute. John glanced at her name badge. It was difficult to read at the angle it hung at, but he squinting managed made out the name "Gemma Jones" printed in block letters across it. Remembering her question, John said, "Yeah- er- I was shot."

John was lost for a moment thinking about it. If he'd stayed sitting down, the bullet would have hit him in the chest, or abdomen at least. As it was... "I must have fallen and hit my head on the coffee table." He paused for a moment, then remembered something else. "Hey, do you know who made the ambulance call?" Doctor Jones frowned slightly. "Not offhand, but I can check for you a bit later." John smiled. "Thanks." He told her.

There was a quiet moment in which the three medical personnel who surrounded John's bed conferred, then two left, leaving John alone with Doctor Jones. She put down her clipboard and came to stand slightly closer. "Well, you've done very well, Mr. Watson. As you said, you were shot. You've had surgery to remove a bullet from your right hip. You also have a mild concussion, so it's possible that you'll experience some gaps or inconsistencies in your memory, or-"

John nodded impatiently. "I'm a doctor," he said briefly. Doctor Jones' expression changed slightly. "Oh," she said, then, adopting a slightly more professional tone, she continued, "Well, your concussion is mild. The leg injury is a bit more complex. There's some major muscle damage, though it's been stitched as well as we can do. You may have some lasting damage from it, but the majority of the injury should heal over time."

John's thoughts flicked back to the aluminium cane, wondering if it was still leaning in that same place on the arm rest of the old stuffed chair. He gave a small, ironic smile. Doctor Jones looked curious, but did not inquire further. "By the way," she said, "Today's the seventh. You've been out because of surgery."

John inhaled sharply. _The seventh._ Six months. Doctor Jones was looking at him inquisitively. "Is there something on your mind?" She asked. John shook his head. "No. It's nothing." She looked at him for a moment, then nodded. "Alright. Is there anything you need? Something to eat? Now that you're up, we can take you off the drip." John took a deep breath. "Yeah, something to eat would be great, thanks."

A nurse came into his room about half an hour later with a tray of food. The doctor had allowed John to raise up the back of the bed slightly so he could look around and had brought him a magazine. The nurse that came in now snapped the tray onto the bed and placed a plastic fork beside it. John grimaced at the hospital fare before him, but ate anyway.

Later that day Doctor Jones came back to check in on him. He asked her about payment- it occurred to him that the private room in which he was staying could not be a cheap one- and she nodded. "Yes, it's been paid for, a Mr.-" she'd squinted in disbelief at the name, "Mycroft Holmes."

Doctor Jones brought with her another dose of pain meds and a cup of orange juice. "By the way," she said, "the police will be wanting to talk to you tonight or tomorrow. You had a Kevlar vest on when you came in, do you remember?" she looked troubled. "Were you expecting someone to be shooting at you?" she asked, perplexedly.

Then Doctor Jones frowned. "No, you don't need to answer that. That's police business, not mine." She turned to go, then, almost to the door, turned back. "I almost forgot. I looked up the ambulance call." her frown deepened. "It was you that made it."

She stayed frowning at him for a moment, then shrugged. "Probably just the concussion messing about with you." She concluded, and exited, leaving John to puzzle over the cloudy memory of the voice he'd heard in 221B


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: Sorry, this chapter might be a little slow. It'll get more adventure-y in the next few. Also CaughtOutInTheDark thank you for your review! I feel exactly the same. Anyways, read and review! :) **

The next morning, Doctor Jones came in at around eight to change the dressings on John's leg and head. This was John's first look at the place where he'd been shot. As a doctor himself, he hated patients mucking about with bandages that he had carefully applied to look at their battle wounds.

John could see at a glance, through the stitches, the angle the bullet had gone in through. He frowned. _They must have got me while I was standing up,_ he thought, _or maybe they were shooting from a low place._ The latter explanation didn't seem to make sense.

Doctor Jones wrapped him back up when they'd both had a look, and confirmed the other thing he'd noticed. "No trace of infection." she said with a smile. "Looking good, Doctor Watson." John smiled back at her. "John, please." He corrected.

She stayed talking with him for a few minutes while he ate the dry pastry and juice that was breakfast that morning. When he was finished, she took the plastic dishes from him and started to leave. "Oh, you've got a visitor coming in about half an hour from now if you feel up to it." she said. John frowned. _She?_ He nodded. "Yeah, sure." _Maybe Mrs. Hudson. _

He'd spoken to Mrs. Hudson the night before on the phone. She'd apparently been out at the time of the shooting, and had returned to find police cars surrounding her home. _Just like the old days,_ she'd braved to say, after expressing her concern about him and being reassured.

But when the door opened to admit his visitor a little while later, it turned out to be none other than Molly Hooper. She was dressed simply, for work, hair pulled back in a long ponytail and clips. "Hello, Molly." John said, feeling a wave of residual guilt for the way Sherlock had always treated her.

He'd seen her once or twice soon after Sherlock's death, but never without other people around, and never when he was in a good enough state to concentrate on a conversation. She came hesitantly closer. "Hello, John." she said, smiling shyly. "I heard about what happened, and, you know, I'm so nearby, I thought I'd come see you. How are you?"

The question was innocuous enough, but John couldn't help but be unsure whether she meant it in terms of recent events and pain or more generally. "I'm alright." he responded cautiously. "How are you?" She bobbed her head noncommittally. "I'm alright too." she said with a little smile.

There was an awkward pause, and then John, who still felt uncomfortable on Sherlock's behalf, said, "Look, Molly, I just want to say- I'm really sorry about- about the way Sherlock was always treating you, and I want you to know that the things you did for us- for the cases, they were really important, and I'm not sure if you ever got much appreciation-"

Uncharacteristically, Molly had cut him off. "John," she said quietly, "before Sherlock died, he came and talked to me. He- well, he was kind to me." John stared at Molly with incredulity. "Sherlock," he repeated, "_Sherlock_ was _kind_ to you?" John paused. "I don't think _kindness_ is an emotion that Sherlock was capable of expressing." He felt a twinge of guilt for saying it, but it was too true to make him take it back.

Molly was smiling at him. "Yes, John." she said, with a little laugh. "He was kind to me. You shouldn't feel guilty on his behalf for anything, you know. He was who he was, and everyone who knew him knew that, and you don't have any responsibility for that." John still wasn't quite convinced, but he didn't mention that.

"Thank you, Molly." he said after a minute. "And I'm glad, that he- that he was kind to you. You didn't deserve how he normally treated you." She smiled. "Thank you, John." there was another pause, but this time it was not awkward. It was good, comforting. Molly spoke again first. "John, we should have coffee sometime- just as friends, of course." She leaned over and squeezed his hand. "You can have friends, you know, without being disloyal to Sherlock."

John smiled. "Yeah, that would be nice." he said. "I'll keep in touch." Molly nodded. "Good." She said. "That'll be good." John nodded in agreement, and they said goodbye. It _had_ been nice to see Molly, and hearing what she had said about Sherlock made him feel an odd contentment, a warm memory of his friend who had managed to somehow redeem himself further.

At eleven, Greg Lestrade arrived. He came alone to John's room and pulled the single chair up to John's bedside. "Hello." he said, a little awkwardly. The air in the room was tense. Though John knew Lestrade had liked Sherlock, he had a slight grudge against the Detective Inspector for going along with the others in their attempt to "expose" Sherlock.

"Hello." John replied stiffly. Lestrade leaned forward in the chair and rested his elbows on his knees. "Look, John," he started in a tired voice, "all this stuff about Sherlock- I'm sorry." John pursed his lips. "You still believe all that rubbish about him, though, don't you?" He asked.

Lestrade sighed. "I dunno, really. I mean, the man didn't exactly act innocent, did he?" He paused, then, in a more quiet voice, added, "Jumped off a bloody building." John stiffened. "You believe it, then." Lestrade rubbed his face with his hands. "No, I'm not saying I believe it. I just- I mean, I don't really know how I can _not_ believe it, but, you know, I liked Sherlock, much of a pompous git as he was. I don't see how he could have done that."

John let silence hang for a moment, but he felt minimally reassured by what Lestrade had said. "Greg," he started, then hesitated before continuing, "I think Sherlock really considered you among his- I don't know, friends, as much as he had them. He didn't have many people he was close to, but you were one of them."

Lestrade ran a hand through his hair. "Well, thanks for that, John." He said, and he really did sound grateful. Then he sat up, expression changing. "Alright, about this shooting thing..." Lestrade pulled a notepad out of his coat pocket. "You were wearing a Kevlar vest. One of _our_ Kevlar vests." The last bit was said with an ironic smile.

John smiled tightly back. "Yeah, that was Sherlock." He replied. Lestrade tilted his head to one side and chuckled. "Yeah, I guessed as much." Then the Detective Inspector waxed businesslike again. "So- why? Why were you expecting a shooting?" John sighed. "One of Sherlock's- friends was in town that morning. She told me I should leave, that someone was setting snipers on 221B Baker Street."

Lestrade frowned. "Snipers? Do you know why?" He asked. John shrugged. "Because of Sherlock. There was some article talking about me... Sherlock's friend thought someone didn't want anything getting public about me, and how- how I was after he died."

Lestrade raised one eyebrow. "That's a bit much, don't you think? Shooting you?" John shrugged again. He wasn't obliged to offer up personal opinions. Lestrade seemed to understand that he wasn't going to get any more on that front from John. He noted something on his pad, then looked back up at John.

"Do you have any other information to offer?" he asked. John shook his head. "I mean," he said, "I don't think you'll find much. Most of the people who went after Sherlock Holmes are pretty good at what they do." Lestrade nodded in acknowledgement as he closed the notepad and slipped it back into his pocket. After a moment he stood.

"Well," Lestrade said, "Best wishes on your recovery, John." John nodded briefly. "Thanks." Lestrade turned to go. "See you around."


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: Hi! Sorry for the wait on this one. **

**Like always, please review if you liked it or if you didn't and have feedback for me :)**

**Enjoy!**

John was woken by someone making noise in the room. He glanced to one side to see a man in a long white coat standing at the counter beside him. "Hello." he said wondering what he was doing there. The man turned. He had been preparing John's medication.

"Ah, Mr. Watson, you're awake." The man said brightly. "I'm Doctor Morrison." John frowned. "Where's Doctor Jones?" he asked. Doctor Morrison turned back to his work as he spoke. "Doctor Jones isn't in today." he replied. He turned back around, holding a small plastic cup. "More pain medication." he said by way of explanation, as he came towards John.

John frowned. "Hang on," he said, "Doctor Jones told me she was planning to reduce my dosage today." Doctor Morrison looked at him almost condescendingly. "Look," he said, "I'm the Doctor in charge right now, and I'm controlling your dosage amount." He paused. "Now, please, Mr. Watson. Or do I need to replace your IV?"

John took the cup, but not before he muttered, "Doctor." Doctor Morrison leaned forward. "Hm?" John spoke more loudly. "It's Doctor Watson." Doctor Morrison straightened his shoulders. "Oh," he said, his voice slightly cold. "Well, Doctor Watson. I trust you'll understand that that changes nothing."

Not looking back at the new doctor, who was, John thought, entirely too arrogant, John took the cup of water by his bed and gulped back the medication. He took a large swallow of the water afterward and shuddered. The awful taste of the liquid filled his mouth and stuck there.

After Doctor Morrison had left and John had spent a few minutes grumbling after his back, he pulled out a book Mrs. Hudson had brought him and began to read. It was a novel, a detective novel. The themes were a little close to home, but it was an easy one to get into, and John found himself reading it straight until a nurse came with his breakfast soon after.

Halfway through the lukewarm oatmeal, John noticed that he was feeling very drowsy. At first he brushed it off as a side effect of the medication, but as it worsened, he began to worry. He was beginning to feel rather sluggish, as though he was thinking through thick molasses.

A few minutes later, John realized his pulse had slowed dramatically. Why, he wondered, hasn't someone come? Turning his head with enormous effort to look at the heart monitor, he realized that something was very wrong.

The monitor was beeping solidly away in a completely different rhythm than John's heart.

John turned his head to the other side, squinting through a world of suddenly blurred objects to find the nurse call button. It had been shifted, and lay several feet out of his reach. Blearily he pushed himself upright, swinging his legs over the side of the bed.

The world swam, went momentarily black, then came back into blurred existence again. John knew he was getting close to the point where he'd be out for real. He pushed himself off the bed, sliding off into a standing position. He reached a wavering hand out toward the button as he fell forward into the dark.

John had a dream that someone was there, leaning over him, slapping his face gently. "John, John. Can you hear me? What's happened?" The voice was so familiar. John tried hard to think through the haze of half-consciousness. He wanted to remember who that voice belonged to as much as he pushed away the thought. He put all his strength toward opening his eyes- they seemed lead-weighted.

Finally he managed to open them a crack. The icy blue eyes that stared into his were heart-wrenchingly familiar. He tried to gather enough breath to say the name.

"Sherlock..." John's voice was almost too faint to hear himself.

Sherlock- was that possibly Sherlock?- was sniffing the tiny medicine cup. "Morphine." he said quietly, then, "John, quickly. What would you give for a morphine overdose?" A morphine overdose. Was that what was wrong with him? John raked his sluggish brain. He had to respond. This was Sherlock he was talking to.

"Naloxone." John said after a moment. "Successive doses." Then Sherlock's face was gone, and John could hear footsteps pounding away as he sank back into unconsciousness.

He couldn't tell where he was immediately when he awoke. He stared at the white ceiling for a moment until hospital crossed his mind. Turning his head to the side, he remembered something else. "Sherlock," he said quietly. The tense expression on the other man's face relaxed somewhat. "You're awake. How are you feeling?" he asked in a slightly worried voice. John bit his lip for a moment, not speaking.

"Sherlock," he repeated, then, "what the fuck is going on?" Sherlock leaned forward, frowning. "Somehow you've had an overdose of morphine." he said with concern. John reddened. "I'm not talking about the morphine," he responded, trying and failing to keep his voice calm. "Bloody fucking hell, Sherlock," he burst out, "the last time I saw you you were lying in a pool of blood with your fucking head basked in." Sherlock looked taken aback.

"John, I-" John didn't let him finish. "It's been six months, Sherlock, six months I've thought you were dead. Do you have any idea-" he was panting heavily. "Why the hell didn't you tell me you were alive? You bloody moron."

John attempted to push himself into a sitting position, but his head swam and he felt a wave of nausea. Sherlock jumped to his feet and pinned John to the bed with strong hands. "Careful," he said in a taught voice, "you're not recovered yet." John did not fight him. He felt suddenly weary again, as if all the energy had drained out of him in his brief burst of anger.

Sherlock was looking at him very strangely. After a moment, he averted his gaze, looking down at the floor. "Er- John," he said, in an odd voice. He did not finish. John realized suddenly that there was a wetness on his cheeks. Somewhere in his tirade, he had begun to cry. He flushed.

"Shit." He said quietly, but now that he had noticed himself crying, he could not seem to stop. It was too much, Sherlock being here, and alive, and on top of that lying in a hospital bed almost having died twice and feeling sicker than he'd ever felt. Sherlock was looking guardedly at him. "John, if you want me to go-"

And John was amazed by the feeling of desperation that seized him. "No!" he said forcefully, then, "I mean- only if you- God." He felt like crawling under the blanket and never emerging again. The sense of helplessness and embarrassment was overwhelming.

Then Sherlock did something very out of character. He reached out and squeezed John's hand, the one without the IV port attached. "John," he said gently, "It's alright. I missed you too.


End file.
